“You’ll be the first.”
Steve Gannon
Kane
Hank Dexter called around eight AM with a fairly short list of spectrum analyzers that possessed the minimum capability to snag a garage door opener code-limiting the number of devices for which I’d have to search. Procuring a roster of recent analyzer purchasers from various distributors and sources like eBay proved tricky without a warrant, but I called in a few favors and for the most part got what I needed.
Working through the morning and most of the afternoon, Arnie and I compiled three new suspect lists containing the names of local subscribers to various electronic, ham radio, and hacker magazines; employees of Southern California aerospace and engineering firms-especially anyone with access to electronic test equipment-and individuals who, over the past two years, had purchased, leased, or rented a spectrum analyzer. Although the two-year cutoff was an arbitrary limit, our inventories quickly showed signs of becoming unmanageably large, and we had to draw the line somewhere.
“What now?” asked Arnie at a little after six that evening, eyeing the piles of notes and faxes spread across our desks.
“It’s too late for any more calling,” I answered. “Let’s start cross-checking this stuff against the task force database.”
“Now? Hell, Dan, it can wait till tomorrow. It’s time for dinner.”
“You go ahead. I’m going to keep at it awhile longer.”
“Suit yourself. See you back at the ranch.”
After Arnie left I rose from my desk, stretched, stumbled to the coffee station, and poured my seventh cup of the day. After returning to my workstation, I used the disc Deluca had brought me to access the task force database. Next, I began a comparison of our new data with old-name by name, category by category.
Later that evening I glanced at the time, surprised to see that three hours had already passed. By then, starting with the most promising comparisons-people owning or with access to a spectrum analyzer versus members and employees of the victims’ health clubs-I had barely made a dent. It was going to be a long night.
I was still working at the computer the next morning when Arnie arrived. Upon entering the nearly deserted squad room, he shook his head in disbelief. “Damn, amigo. You’ve been at it since I left?”
Wearily, I nodded.
“Anything?”
“I just now came up with another possible. Fifth one so far. This one is a guy who purchased a Hewlett-Packard 8590-series spectrum analyzer last February. He also subscribes to a publication called Hardware Hacker.”
“Any other correlation?”
“He lives in Orange County and made a credit card purchase of pair of Genie garage-door remotes last April from a local distributor. No connection with the victims, no repair shop tie-ins.”
“What about the attorneys’ office?”
“He’s not on their employee list. I was just about to check DMV records.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you. I’m gonna grab some coffee. Want a refill?”
I nodded. “Black.” I handed Arnie my mug and refocused my attention on the computer screen.
When Arnie returned, I was no longer fatigued. I sat erect, eyes riveted on the monitor. Sensing something was up, Arnie peered at the screen. “What’ve you got?” he asked, checking the name on top of the readout: Victor Carns.
“DMV shows three vehicles registered to this guy,” I answered. “A Lamborghini, a Ford van, and a Toyota.”
“So?”
“We think the killer was driving a white van when he followed Maureen Baker from her health club in West LA. Later he switched to a dark-colored Toyota when he broke into her house. Plus, some guy driving a blue Toyota bumped Julie Welsh’s car, probably to get her home address. Somebody in a van did the same to Susan Larson.”
“Damn! This could be the guy.”
“Maybe.” I picked up the phone. After placing a call to DMV headquarters in Sacramento, I turned back to the screen. “Let’s see what CLETS can turn up.” I printed a copy of the DMV file, then booted up a California police database whose acronym stood for California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. My inquiries on Victor Carns showed no warrants outstanding, no supervised-release file, no criminal history. FBI records, however, did reveal one interesting bit of information: Nineteen years back Carns had served as an electronics technician in the United States Navy.
Just then the fax machine cranked out a high resolution blowup of Victor Carns’s driver’s license picture. Arnie and I studied the photocopy, staring at the face of a nondescript man in his midthirties.
“Looks like an accountant,” said Arnie.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “We had the Baker woman work with a composite artist. This doesn’t much resemble the drawing they came up with, which could explain why nobody at the health clubs picked him out. Height, age, weight, and hair color are close, though,” I added, referring to the DMV printout.
“A lot of people don’t work well with an artist,” noted Arnie. “The Baker lady might recognize this picture, though. If she tags him, we could revisit the health clubs. We can run his DMV thumbprint against the crime-scene unknowns, too.”
“We’ll do those things for certain, but right now there may be a quicker way.” After referring to my notes, I again picked up the phone.
“Who’re you calling?”
“An attorney’s office in Santa Ana.” I dialed a 714-area code number, then covered the receiver with my palm. “Somebody used their office codes to get a DMV trace on Mrs. Baker.”
Hearing someone pick up at the other end, I removed my hand from the mouthpiece. “Hello? Yes, I’m calling about the status of my bill. Would you please connect me with someone in accounting?” Turning toward Arnie, I once more covered the phone. “We don’t have enough to get a warrant for their client list, and we haven’t been able to come up with anything on-Hello? Yes, good morning. This is Victor Carns. That’s C-A-R-N-S. I’m leaving on an extended trip and I want to make sure my account is fully paid.” A pause. “It is? Good. Thank you. You have a nice day, too.”
I set the receiver back in the cradle. Both Arnie and I stared at Carns’s DMV photo for several seconds. Finally Arnie spoke. “Damn,” he said softly. “You nailed him.”
I nodded. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough for an arrest, or even a search warrant. But now we know who he is.”
“What’s next? Turn it over to the task force?”
“Not quite yet. There’s one more thing I want to check.”
48
Later that Saturday afternoon Barrello and I pulled through the Orange County subdivision of Coto de Caza’s north gate, Barrello at the wheel. Winding through a maze of country roads, we passed an equestrian center, a rustic-looking general store, and what seemed an endless parade of white fenced, multiacre estates. A mile farther on we pulled to a stop on Via Pajaro, parking in the shade of a large sycamore. I referred to a brochure we’d picked up earlier at the realtor’s office. According to the enclosed map, we were at the south end of the “Los Ranchos Estates” section of the community, the oldest and most prestigious area in Coto.
Leaving the engine running, Barrello reached into a paper sack beside him, pulling out a cheeseburger and a carton of fries. “Sucker’s as big as a hotel,” he said, gazing up at an English Tudor-style mansion set high on a hillside across the street.
Nodding in agreement, I opened the glove compartment and withdrew a pair of binoculars. Sweeping them across the sprawling structure, I inspected Victor Carns’s estate. The main house stood partially concealed behind several large outbuildings and an orchard of fruit trees. Gables and several brick chimneys pierced the structure’s gray slate roof. Two additional wings fanned out on either side, both of these secondary projections easily as large as an average home. No movement on the grounds or inside the house, at least that I could see.